June 15th 2016

····crossing the road—a mid-afternoon
Less than a week left of spring and I feel just as I did at the end of winter, ready for new kigo (even if I’m making them up). Standing back of my wildflower garden, the stretch of yard I don’t’t mow, I could build my little Mozart Hütte. Wouldn’t take long. Basho, without family or attachments, wandered Japan’s narrow roads and took to cabins built for him by admiring students and patrons. That’s the life for a poet. Disciples. Adulation. Patrons.
····the clapboards don’t care if I’m a great
222 June 15th 2016 | bottlecap

3 responses

  1. I have two interpretations:

    1. The old clapboards care only for what kind of job you do on them.

    2. The old clapboards are among a larger group that doesn’t care about poets. “The sink doesn’t care, the tires don’t care…”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: